


Telescopes and Ladders

by RenaRoo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, adulting problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: Alfred leaves for England on business and leaves the Manor to Bruce and a young Dick for a week. Bruce realizes he doesn’t know how to Adult for a child on his own.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 192
Collections: Bat Hugs, Dick & Bruce, everybody loves dick





	Telescopes and Ladders

**Author's Note:**

> I’m honestly fascinated by the time between Bruce taking Dick in/solving the Grayson family murder and when Dick became Robin. I always tend to lean on the B:TAS tradition of there being a gap of years between the two (8 for Dick’s adoption/guardianship and 12 when he became Robin officially), but that leaves a lot of very important years of development. Not just for Dick but for Bruce and Alfred, too. That really doesn’t have that much to do with this story because I also am a pushover for family fluff and there’s not enough of accidental!parent Bruce fluff ever.

Few things could strike fear into the heart of a man who had faced some of the world’s greatest evils and come out to the other side. Few things could make a shudder break through the rigid back of a man who had already lived through losing absolutely everything.

But the prospect which faced Bruce Wayne was too horrible, too _frightful_ to fully comprehend.

By the time Bruce realized the full gravity of what he was about to face, it was too late to make any changes.

He stood, helpless, in the doorway as Alfred finished packing up his things. The number of clothes was a staggering reminder that this was a two-week-longtrip.

Losing Alfred for any amount of time was hard enough for Bruce, even as a man in the prime of his life. But losing Alfred after the last six months of _drastic_ changes was an inconceivable terror.

“Master Richard prefers his sandwiches cut into _triangles,”_ Alfred reminded Bruce as he folded his fourth identical suit. “The crust remains, but the triangles are _essential.”_

Bruce squinted at Alfred and then looked down to his notepad, jotting down the detail. “He never mentioned that to me before.”

“I don’t imagine he ever saw you in a kitchen, Sir,” Alfred said dryly.

Unable to repress it, Bruce felt a frown tug at the corners of his mouth. One day he would have a witty retort that Alfred would not be prepared to immediately smackdown. Not in the foreseeable future, but one day.

“His school uniforms are pressed and hung up for the coming school week, but there is not a rotation for two weeks in a row,” Alfred continued. “I would recommend laundering them over the weekend.”

“I am fairly certain I could have figured that one out, Alfred,” Bruce replied, writing it down all the same. He slowed his pencil toward the end, thinking. “By launder—“

“I have put the name, address, and phone number of my preferred local dry cleaners on a note on the fridge, along with other contact information,” Alfred answered.

Crinkling his nose, Bruce looked at Alfred. “Alfred, it couldn’t _possibly_ be that difficult to just… leave instructions for the machine, could it? It’ll look ridiculous to take _all_ of our clothes to a dry cleaner for two weeks. I think I should be capable of at _least_ doing that much.”

Never once in all the time that Bruce had known Alfred — which _had been_ his entire life — had the man rolled his eyes while still within Bruce’s line of sight. However, the careful and methodical way that Alfred slowed his packing to a crawl and slowly looked into Bruce’s direction was about as humanly close as one could get to a full-body eye roll.

“I had once thought, in all the time it took for one to travel the world, train in a hundred forms of combat, perfect studies of chemistry, art, and history… that in-between moments of developing an engineer’s penchant for invention and a detective’s mind for compulsory criminal actions, that penciling a laundering cycle into the schedule could have happened,” Alfred mused out loud. “The fact that it _hadn’t_ should be evidence enough of why, should you touch the washing machine before my return, I will take it upon myself to never touch your unclean wears again.” His mustache twitched almost testily. “ _Including_ a particular rancid suit. I should like to see _that_ taken to the dry cleaners with a proper explanation.”

Bruce’s eyebrows could not have reached further for his hairline. Nodding slowly, he then looked down and dutifully wrote in his notepad as he said out loud, “Don’t… touch… Alfred’s… washing machine.”

Alfred’s gaze did not drop until Bruce had finished punctuating the _machine_ , then he snapped shut the final suitcase. He seemed satisfied.

There was not much left on the particulars. Even if Alfred hadn’t left detailed notes on how to run the washing machine, it was one of the few parts of the Manor’s livable space that didn’t have precisely written notes on it. Alfred’s were taped to the relevant surfaces. Bruce’s were in his notepad, carefully inscribed and yet still leaving him woefully underprepared for whatever came next.

The air was stiff, and they were seemingly out of stalling tactics.

“Dick is going to miss you,” Bruce said, filling the silence.

“I imagine nearly as much as he does you during your travels, Sir,” Alfred said.

Bruce furrowed his brows. “That isn’t fair.”

“It seems our lives never are,” Alfred admitted.

They weren’t that far apart from each other. Perhaps arm’s length for Bruce.

But Alfred didn’t come forward and neither did Bruce.

Instead, he hoped Alfred understood what was there. That Bruce would be missing him too.

* * *

Dick was a good kid. And saying even that really seemed to sell him short.

There was hardly anything Bruce had to say to him during the time Alfred was gone and Dick knew his times and appointments for everything, and even how many times to remind Bruce. Which, given, was more than it should have been. On instinct, Bruce’s responses tended to be rather unhelpful.

“There’s a school thing in thirty minutes,” Dick called from the top banister, standing on his hands without care.

Bruce, who had been walking through the foyer on his way to the kitchen for a snack paused and looked up at his young ward. It had been six months and his heart would still _seize_ when he saw Dick using the Manor as a jungle gym. Dependent on the stunt it was either for Dick’s safety or for the Manor’s.

“Is that necessary?” Bruce asked.

Dick blinked owlishly and tilted his head, albeit upside down. “The school thing?”

“No,” Bruce said before gesturing unhelpfully, “the…”

Without really emoting, Dick shifted to a one-handed headstand and Bruce thought of all the bones that could break from a fall at that height depending on the angle of landing.

“So it’s in thirty minutes,” Dick reminded him again.

“Okay,” Bruce answered, not following because his ward — his _responsibility_ — was dangerously close to paralyzation. If Bruce closed his eyes he could practically _see_ it unfolding before them.

After another agonizing moment, Dick lowered his free hand and then somersaulted easily backward onto the third floor’s top stair. He didn’t even take a moment to pause as he looked over Bruce with severe skepticism and judgment.

“Do you want me to take a cab?” he asked seriously.

Smacking his own forehead, Bruce cursed under his breath and shook his head. “You need me to take you.”

Rolling his head to one side, Dick shrugged. “Not really. I can take a cab.”

“You’re _eight,”_ Bruce reminded him like he needed to.

“I used to ride in the back of a truck with a petting zoo,” Dick argued back.

Bruce squinted at him, considering the option. “Is it normal for eight-year-olds to take cabs to school?”

“I don’t know,” Dick answered honestly. “Should you call Alfred and ask?”

It didn’t take more than _one_ iteration of that phone call playing out in Bruce’s head for him to realize that it was a poor idea. And that Alfred would be very disappointed in the _world’s greatest detective_ for his deductive reasoning skills.

He preferred keeping the phone calls short and reduced to good reports. On both sides.

“I think I should drive you,” Bruce said far more decisively than the precluding conversation should have allowed.

Dick casually walked down the long staircase of the foyer. He was walking down them upright, but Bruce had the terrifying feeling that even a blink would allow Dick to slip into another acrobatic feat that could endanger lives _and_ fancy artisanship that Bruce pretended to pay homage to.

“I’m okay with that,” Dick reported as if it was up to him to provide permission for it. “Do you have time for it?”

Bruce Wayne had all the time in the world, but Batman was in between important and pressing cases that the commissioner had given him to look over the night before. There was also a new APB out for Poison Ivy the was concerning. A stack of forensic science publications had been delivered that morning which covered technology and theories that Bruce was hoping to pilfer through to keep up to date on his own methodologies and equipment. Not to mention the tune-up that the Batmobile desperately needed he had put off in favor of working on the training facility he was putting together for Dick.

Dick’s school was a fifteen-minute drive one way, which meant at _least_ thirty minutes lost to taking him, dropping off, and coming back to the manor. And that was only if Bruce threw Dick out of the window while looping past the school.

“What is this thing?” Bruce finally asked, realizing it was something the _start_ of their conversation properly required.

“Stargazing,” Dick answered, beaming. “I joined the astronomy club! Remember?”

A faint recollection rested on the horizon of Bruce’s memory. “Yes,” he answered instead.

“Tonight’s the first night. Jimmy’s dad is making hotdogs while we watch, and Mrs. Gupta is giving extra credit to everyone who comes!”

“They give extra credit in third grade now?” Bruce asked, genuinely surprised.

Dick raised an eyebrow at him. “Your third grade didn’t?”

Despite his best efforts, Bruce couldn’t help the automatic withdrawal he felt. He bit back on his molars and glanced away from Dick’s earnest gaze. He couldn’t remember much about the third grade at the end of the day. He didn’t finish it in regular school with other children, he was homeschooled. By Alfred.

Alfred who left him with another little boy that had his time as an eight-year-old changed forever. One that Bruce, admittedly, took in himself without any clue what he was doing for the boy other than “more.”

It was six months, and Dick was going to a _school thing._ Perhaps it was working.

“Okay,” Bruce said again. “How long are we going to be at this school thing?”

Genuinely surprised, Dick shook his head. “You don’t have to go. You’ve got the stuff.” He glanced around cautiously before bringing up his index fingers to poke out by the sides of his head. His fingers wiggled. “You know. _Your stuff.”_

“I’m aware,” Bruce said. “I’ve got some folders I’ll be taking with us but… We’ll be fine.”

Dick’s entire face lit up. “Oh! Okay!”

Alfred would have thought to bring blankets, like many of the other parents had. But Dick liked laying in the grass, and Bruce didn’t mind it, too.

* * *

After a long, wet night on patrol, Bruce collapsed into his bed for what he felt was a much-deserved sleep. He had positively _no_ intention of waking up.

Until an alarm went off on the other side of his bedroom, of course.

At first, Bruce only vaguely recognized the noise. It was a dull throbbing that was interfering with the only thing he could think to desire — sleeping in. But as it persisted, his disbelief gave way to anger. He threw his pillow at it. Then another pillow. Then another.

It wasn’t long before the noise was continuing and there were no more pillows within Bruce’s reach.

Throwing his sheets off, Bruce leaped to his feet and stormed over to the alarm clock, ripping it out of the wall with the same force he had used just hours ago to punch out one of the Riddler’s neon green question marks. _That_ , at least, had been enjoyable and profound in its moment. The alarm clock’s cord nearly jerked the socket out of the wall.

Having never been one for alarms before, Bruce tried to fight through the fog of early morning to figure out _why_ he had set the damn thing to begin with.

Then he noticed, on the dresser beside the alarm’s former place, was the notepad full of Alfred’s instructions.

He was supposed to take Dick to school. The school started in _fifteen minutes_ and was a fifteen-minute _drive_ from the manor.

A string of Not-Dick-Friendly words escaped Bruce as he grabbed sweat pants lying on the floor and rushed out the door.

Bruce had one leg into the sweats and was struggling with the second as he slid down the hall. _“DICK!”_ he called out loudly, facing down the dark hall. He should have set it earlier — should have known he needed to wake Dick up and get him ready. Did he dry clean Dick’s uniform? Did they have extras?

He should have picked up the notepad while he was at it, too.

“I think I’m going to be late,” Dick yawned from the opposite end of the hallway.

Skidding to a halt, Bruce turned with relief to see that Dick was standing, backpack already over his shoulders, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“We’ll be fine,” Bruce declared, finishing putting on his sweatpants. Without even a _thought_ of getting more than that for his attire, Bruce raced down the hall, scooped up the third-grader, and was headed down the stairs and through the foyer. They would use the Maserati still parked in the circle just outside the main entrance. That would be quick — and the drive _quicker_ given Bruce’s lead foot.

“I can walk,” Dick grunted, unhappily squirming in Bruce’s arms. “I’m not a _baby!_ ”

“I’m faster and we’re getting you to school,” Bruce snapped a little harsher than he meant to come off, pushing the entry door open with a broad shoulder. “Good,” he muttered as he began down the stairs, “it’s not raining—“

Perhaps it was Dick’s squirming, perhaps it was the distracting way the sunlight was peaking out from the approaching dawn.

Maybe Bruce was off his game from no sleep.

Regardless, his shoeless heel hit the edge of the stone step’s puddle at an angle _just_ so. The water, pouring over the gutters just above the eaves of the entrance, was running over the steps and Bruce’s entire body went running _with_ them before hitting hard on the cement that he and Dick tumbled down together. Bruce more than Dick after the barrel roll he maneuvered them into.

They landed at the base of the stairs, Bruce flat on his back and Dick on his chest, feet from the wheels of the Maserati.

“Dick,” Bruce said, shirtless and cold.

“Um, yeah, Bruce?”

“You’re not going to school today,” Bruce informed him. “We’ll come up with something.”

* * *

By noon, the water had stopped pooling around the grounds of the manor. Instead, they stayed collected around the bushes and shrubbery that Alfred had kept expertly in line like a moat.

The moats were _not_ a part of Alfred’s design. Or, if they were, it had been a request made when Bruce was distracted and noncommittally responding to requests from the butler. Both were likely, despite Bruce’s discomfort with the latter upon some self-evaluation.

Going on the leap of faith that his mind had not been _so_ distracted in the last few weeks that he wouldn’t _completely_ forget a request like building moats in the garden, Bruce began examining how the morning’s incident came to be.

It took nearly an hour to finally realize that in some areas of manor’s roofing, water was still pouring over the concrete gutters.

That was not how they were designed. Bruce was _certain_ of it.

Going out to the uninhabited stables, Bruce found a fifty-foot ladder collapsed together. He folded it under his arm and carried it out promptly to the sites of the manor where water had escaped the gutters the most and set to work. He unfolded the ladder, secured its every latch, leaned it carefully against the manor walls, and began to ascend the great height between himself and the eaves of his home.

Halfway up the ladder, he wondered, idly, why he hadn’t just used a grappling hook. It seemed far more practical.

Reaching the gutter, Bruce glanced down both ways. There was not much of an inspection needed to see it was backed up with debris from the storm.

Curious, Bruce looked around for where the branches and leaves could have come from nearby, but the largest trees within twenty feet were spruces. That didn’t match his culprit in the gutters at all.

For a brief, irrational moment, Bruce thought of Poison Ivy and wondered if she had a reason to be near the manor during the storm. It wasn’t nearly as logical as the winds carrying tree limbs from the further trees in the rather large and sprawling Wayne estates, but it at the very least made it more of a _Batman_ problem than a _Bruce_ problem.

Bruce was really wishing, the longer he went without Alfred, that there were some less Bruce problems in the world.

“What’re you doing?”

Bruce startled with surprise. Then, as he glanced down below the eaves and toward the third-floor window nearest him. He could see it was opened with a curious eight-year-old hanging out of it.

More Bruce problems.

“Dick, get down from the windowsill!” Bruce snapped.

Dick blinked at him, almost surprised at the tone. “Are you still mad about falling?”

“I was never mad about falling,” Bruce lied through his teeth.

“I won’t ever tell anybody,” Dick offered, a genuine smile on his face. “Even though it _was_ really funny.”

Bruce felt a strange and worrying tightness in his chest as Dick leaned out further and craned his neck to look up and down the ladder. The eight-year old’s feet dangled on the inside of the window as Dick’s center of balance migrated toward his hips. He was teetering back and forth — closer to _forth_ and the perilous drop to the shrubs and impromptu moat with each moment.

“I don’t care!” Bruce yelled, thinking of cervical vertebrae and swelling brains. “Get back in the house — feet on the floor.”

Dick gave him a look. “That’s the _least_ interesting place for feet to be.”

If Dick wasn’t so precariously close to getting himself killed, Bruce could have sworn that the boy was trying to get _Bruce_ killed of a heart attack.

“It is the _only_ place your feet are going to be in the next ten seconds or I’ll ground you from everything,” Bruce strained to get out. Then, thinking the threat wasn’t making much of an impact, added, “For _life.”_

It must have sounded as lame as it felt for Bruce to say because Dick looked at him, rather unimpressed. All the same, he dipped back into the manor and out of Bruce’s line of sight.

Exhaling strongly through his nostrils, Bruce forced himself to calm down. His heart really _had_ felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest for a moment there. It was arguably more exhilaration than he had received from even his grandest case.

Unlike cracking a case, he _hated_ every moment of that particular moment.

Shaking his head, Bruce tried to think of his task at hand again. The gutters.

Even though his gloves were thick, the cool splash of murky stagnant water felt uncomfortable for Bruce. He hadn’t realized that rainwater was capable of collecting so much soot and rust in its travels. There was positively nothing clear with the gutters’ collection.

Bruce could only assume that was normal for gutters. He honestly had no idea.

He was elbow deep in dragging his gloved hands through the gutters, clearing out leaves and branches with a splash before he was interrupted again.

“You never said what you were doing,” Dick’s voice came like an accusation.

“Clearing the gutters,” Bruce grunted in reply, less taken by surprise that time around.

At least, there was less surprise until it registered _where_ the voice was coming from. Then Bruce looked not down to the window, but _up_ over the gutters and toward the rooftop itself. Dick was sitting on his haunches, balanced in the middle of the roof itself.

For a moment, Bruce’s mind short-circuited as he stared at Dick. He couldn’t register _when_ Dick got there, _how_ Dick got there, _why_ Dick got there. His mind was entirely consumed with vivid images of the sweet little boy tumbling out of reach, falling to certain doom. Forget cervical vertebrae, there were punctures and broken things and cracked skulls and subcranial hemorrhage—

No words came out of Bruce’s mouth but a wide range of noises ripped their way from his throat.

In return, Dick tilted his head to the side with the innocence of a labradoodle. “You okay, Bruce?”

There were many things Bruce could have said to inform Dick that he needed to get down, that he was in a dangerous position, that he was doing something _bad and unspeakable,_ or that Bruce was back on the brink of a heart attack. But they involved _words_ and Bruce was short on them.

Instead, without a second’s reflection, Bruce flailed out his free arm and brought it down on Dick’s knee.

The boy jerked in surprise, looking at Bruce’s hand, but was unprepared for Bruce to use his vice grip to drag him down the roof and tuck him under his armpit. Instead of a physical escape, Dick hung like a sack and called out a muffled, “Bruce!” that his elder hardly detected with the blood pumping in his ears.

With all the swaying and lunging and panic-inducing, the ladder began to sway uncomfortably beneath Bruce’s feet.

“What’re you _doing?”_ Dick demanded angrily.

Bruce didn’t answer, his attention shifted to holding onto the ladder with his free hand while looking down to the ground where the feet of the ladder were. The ladder continued swaying further and further to one side, aided by its rapid sinking into the muddy moat below.

“You didn’t close the window?” Bruce demanded sharply, already in motion hoping for the best answer.

“Huh?” Dick answered unhelpfully.

Leaping from the ladder, Bruce aimed for the third-floor window which _was_ still open. It was at least one less window to replace.

The momentum that carried them into the window forced Bruce to tuck into another roll with Dick — his second for that day — and it took them across the entire stretch of the guest room Bruce was fairly sure he’d never been in before.

By the time they came to a stop, hitting the opposing door, they could hear the timely crash of the ladder outside.

Bruce was panting, still keeping Dick coiled up against his side.

Dick was quiet for a long time before finally uttering, “You sure have a lot of accidents, Bruce.”

* * *

Alfred had said he would be back in the morning, and Bruce had honestly never felt such relief in his life.

There was no mention of the previous day’s watery catastrophes. There was a hint of detecting _something_ based on Alfred’s line of questions, but he was never specific enough that Bruce had to outright lie. And, therefore, Bruce didn’t have to offer up any stories either.

Dick had not said anything either. Perhaps he _had_ meant it when he said he wouldn’t tell anyone.

Bruce squinted at the bottom of the takeout box and poked at it with his chopsticks. The Thai food had been satisfactory, the portions had not after a rough week.

Perhaps he was simply missing Alfred’s food.

Dick was staring at him. Then, slowly, Dick lifted up his own box and began poking at it with his own, much messier, chopsticks. Of course, without the finesse of an _experienced_ takeout consumer, Dick did poke rather hard, ripping a hole through the bottom of his takeout container.

If the eight-year-old noticed he didn’t say anything before setting the box down.

Feeling a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, Bruce set his box down as well. “Are you happy Alfred is coming home?”

Dick’s eyes shown brightly for a moment. “Yeah!” He then glanced away, pressing his mouth closed.

Curious, Bruce raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked.

“I kind of liked it being us,” Dick sighed.

Bruce took a moment and then furrowed his brow. Everything that had happened in the past week had felt like a fairly unmitigated disaster in his book. He had only assumed how much _worse_ it had been from the place of a lonely, fearful child.

“Really?” he asked.

Looking mortified for a brief moment, Dick straightened up in his seat. “I miss Alfred _a whole lot,”_ he assured Bruce. “But you’re lots of fun, Bruce.”

That only served to confound Bruce even _more._

“No one called me fun. Ever,” he told Dick. “Not even in kindergarten.”

That seemed to take Dick by surprise. “Huh,” he said. “I guess they didn’t get you like I do.”

“No,” Bruce said slowly, “I suppose not.”

When Bruce glanced over again, Dick was searching his face carefully, eyes shining with some gentle curiosity. “Did you have fun this week?” He asked timidly.

It was a remarkable question _because_ of the timidness. Timidness was not something Bruce saw in Dick often.

The boy had climbed up to the roof of a three-story manor without blinking.

“Fun in what sense?” Bruce caught himself asking.

Immediately, there was some deflation of Dick’s esteem as he settled back into his seat. And Bruce knew he had made a mistake that needed to corrected immediately.

“Obviously it has been fun in every important sense but one,” Bruce made up on the spot.

Dick’s disappointment gave way almost immediately to bright curiosity again as he sat up in his seat, wide-eyed and attentive toward Bruce. “What way?”

“The Alfred kind of way,” Bruce answered. “Hard to do that without Alfred around.”

A warm smile spread across Dick’s features. “But he’ll be back tomorrow,” Dick took his turn to comfort Bruce. “But I do hope we get to do more _Bruce and Dick_ stuff in the future. Just us two.”

“You know, Dick,” Bruce chuckled, “I have the feeling we will.”

* * *

The rain returned on the same day that Alfred had.

Trips back from England were not abnormal for Alfred to take, which meant he and Bruce had worked out a rhythm even in their care. Namely, Alfred took a cab back to the manor and Bruce met him there. The butler positively _protested_ any other arrangement.

Which meant, with rain pouring, Bruce and Dick sat in the manor. Waiting.

Dick’s eyes followed the hands of the grandfather clock in Bruce’s den. He was laying on his stomach with his chubby cheeks propped up by tiny fists. His interlocked ankles swayed to and fro to the rhythm of the clock.

Bruce was thumbing through his forensic magazines at long last, pretending to be buried in their knowledge and development. It took a great effort to not simply join Dick in staring at the grandfather clock expectantly.

“I think we should get a dog,” Dick announced without prodding.

“No,” Bruce answered easily enough, flipping the page.

“Well, what if we want to have Bruce and Dick adventures while Alfred’s still here? Wouldn’t that be lonely for him?” Dick whined keenly. He looked away from the clock just long enough to make pleading blue eyes in Bruce’s direction.

In what could only be considered a mistake, Bruce made eye contact. It was too late, even as he immediately ripped his eyes away from Dick’s gaze.

“Maybe,” Bruce answered.

“What’re we gonna name the dog?” Dick asked, satisfied.

“Dick,” Bruce said, a smirk on his lips. “He’ll be your replacement.”

“You can’t replace me,” Dick snorted.

“Maybe,” Bruce conceded. “But Dick the dog wouldn’t get on the roof.” He thought for a moment, then flipped another page. “Probably.”

“He would if I taught him to before I left,” Dick said eagerly. “I’m gonna teach him how to cut his sandwiches like Alfred, too. Help him out.”

“Alfred would like that, a _dog_ touching all his food,” Bruce mused. He glanced over to Dick. “Remember—“

“Don’t tell Alfred about forgetting school,” Dick listed off on his fingers, “or falling, or the gutters, or the roof, or the broken ladder.”

“Or the takeout boxes,” Bruce added. He had taken the pains of driving their trash bags to the dumpster at the far end of the estate himself to prevent any unfortunate discoveries. Surely if they were at the dumpster already, Alfred would have no reason to inspect them.

Though, Bruce supposed that had never stopped him as Batman from digging through the trash before.

A slight panic traveled through him.

“Are we forgetting anything?” Bruce asked, more rhetorically than anything else.

All the same, Dick gave him an honest shrug. “Did you brush your teeth?”

Bruce began to respond to that when there was a buzzing sound from his desk. Both he and Dick glanced at it, though it was not necessary to confirm what the two of them already knew.

The buzzer was to the main gate for the estate, which meant that Alfred had buzzed himself in.

“He’s here!” Dick exclaimed.

“Don’t get too excited, he hates that,” Bruce warned, as though he wasn’t already on his feet.

He and Dick were neck and neck out of the doorway to the den, though Bruce regained his composure and remembered himself once through it. He had a demeanor and expectation to fulfill, after all, no matter his excitement.

With the bliss of youth, Dick exploded out of the den, ran through the hall, and was flipping onto the banister before even a word could be uttered. “Alfred!” He yelled out.

Bruce’s heart warmed as he heard the main entrance open then close to the howling winds and rain. Alfred, in his trench coat and bowler hat, stepped through, tipping slightly as he closed his umbrella under his arm and looked confidently into the manor.

The old man’s smile could not be hidden by his tidy mustache as it reached up into his soft eyes, looking up from the foyer floor to the stairs where Bruce slowly descended.

He looked good and cheerful. Bruce wanted to run over to him and wrap him in a hug then and there.

Dick, sliding down the banister and leaping at Alfred, had the pleasure of acting on Bruce’s hidden impulse. “Alfred! Welcome home! We missed you! But everything was great!” Dick’s words were hurried and calculated to cover all the bases he and Bruce had discussed.

Had Alfred not been known for his keen eye, Bruce would have offered the eight-year-old a thumbs up in approval.

“My, my, Master Richard, I do believe you have grown a hair since I left you,” Alfred chuckled, patting the boy wrapped around his waist.

“I hope it’s on the top of my head so I can get taller,” Dick joked back.

By the end of Dick’s hug, Bruce’s careful approach finally brought him to Alfred and he was able to regard the man who raised him. He took a deep breath and then, carefully, hugged around Alfred’s shoulders.

“You were missed, old friend,” Bruce got out, his voice strained beyond exception.

“As were the both of you,” Alfred said, hugging Bruce back. “Now,” he broke the hug and held Bruce’s shoulders at arm’s length. His mustache twitched as a twinkle grew sharp in his eyes. “I noticed my ladder was broken in the yard.”

Bruce tightened his smile into a small frown and glanced toward Dick whose eyes were approximately the size of their takeout boxes from the previous night.

“I am sure it’s an entertaining story,” Alfred tutted, releasing Bruce and beginning to take off his hat and coat. “I expect you both will share it with me eventually.”

Dick didn’t break his eye contact with Bruce and neither did Bruce back, but the energy shifted and both were able to breathe.

“I don’t know, Alfred,” Bruce said somewhat jovially. “Some adventures are just… between Bruce and Dick.”

Immediately, Dick’s grin spread from ear to ear and he leaped back to his feet with a flip.

“Oh! But Alfred! I can tell you about the astronomy club!” Dick crooned, taking off after the butler.

Bruce released a breath and felt a calm in the manor that had been gone for a long time.

It was good having the entire family home.


End file.
